


Half-Breed

by Tah the Trickster (TahTheTrickster)



Category: Hellsing
Genre: F/F, Folklore, Multi, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-11 23:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15982742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TahTheTrickster/pseuds/Tah%20the%20Trickster
Summary: The anniversaries of Alucard's disappearance are supposed to be quiet, solemn days in which Seras takes over her master's duties temporarily to allow Integra the time and privacy to grieve. It has been thus for several years now, and Seras has yet to take issue with the matter.Until a young werewolf turns up on the doorstep of the manor, weak, mutilated, and half-dead, and much of the manor's silent boredom is instantly upended in the backlash of her fervently begging for sanctuary. Nobody is entirely sure what to make of her silent terror, and she doesn't seem willing or able to explain her state.She might even be more than just halfway dead.





	1. Chapter 1

The first few years following the fall of Millennium were blessedly quiet compared to the height of their activity. For all that her master should've been resting and healing, Seras was weary to find her rather going about her usual activities as though she'd never suffered even so much as a papercut, let alone the mental and physical trauma that'd befallen her on the zeppelin over London.

She had work to do, she told Seras when she tried to pull her back. The manor was half in ruin, her forces had been utterly decimated. They— _ she _ —had to rebuild. The organization needed fresh blood. (Seras pardoned the pun). The Hellsing Organization had to rebuild.

The only reprieves Integra gave herself that Seras could see were on the anniversaries of Alucard's disappearance.

In those days, Integra would hole herself up in her office, taking no visitors and speaking to no one. When Seras conferred privately with Pip regarding her master's activity within her office, he merely offered her an exaggerated shrug—he only ever saw her lost in thought at her desk, an open box of cigars and a tall glass of whiskey before her, and the occasional expression of deep sorrow crossing her face as she drank.

That was... fine, she supposed. Integra didn't have the same link to her vampiric master that Seras herself did. She could nearly physically feel the thread that still connected her blood to his. Integra, however, remaining human... she supposed that their connection was not so tangibly  _ felt. _ For Sir Integra, it surely  _ did _ feel it was the anniversary of Alucard's death, and had that been the case, Seras could hardly fault her for wanting to mourn in private.

She even did Integra the favor of warding off unwanted guests during this time, allowing her the solitude she evidently desired so much. Seras herself could run day-to-day operations just fine in her stead; nothing short of a true emergency warranted her master's attention on her day of mourning.

So, when the alarm was sounded at the front gate, Seras was certain she could handle whatever was causing the latest batch of Helling agents to panic and shout for her, particularly as there had been no casualties as of yet.

She wasn't sure what she expected to find in the manor's front lobby, but the creature on the ground before her wasn't it.

Young, too young to have eyes nearly so hollow. Dull yellow eyes gazed up at her, manic, from behind the wild snarl of black hair curtaining the creature's dark bronze face. Its lips were parted for ragged breaths, as though it'd sprinted for miles to arrive. Indeed, between the dry mud and dry blood that stained the nearly-shredded clothes hanging off the creature's emaciated body, Seras was willing to believe that it most likely had.

But that didn't explain why it was here now, collapsed onto its knees, dripping dirt and blood onto the pristine hardwood floor, panting as though it'd run a marathon, staring straight through her, trembling uncontrollably, hair half-covering its face, young and mutilated and thin and  _ covered _ in scars—

Then Seras saw the teeth in its gaping mouth. The long, deadly claws on each fingertip.

The golden eyes.

Seras scarcely had time to register the startled thought of  _ werewolf _ before her solid hand whipped up, pistol in hand, leveled directly between the werewolf girl's dull, manic eyes. To her credit, the werewolf didn't even flinch at the very clear threat, at the warning curl of Seras's finger around the trigger, at the eerie, inhuman growl that rumbled in Seras's throat.

She just stared up at her, gasping for breath, a noticeable tremble in her jaw, but—no fear in her eyes. Seras wondered if she was even lucid enough to understand what was going on.

"State your business," Seras ordered stiffly, gun cocked and unwavering, "or get out."

The rasp of her breath rattled as the werewolf girl gasped another lungful of air in. "Sanctuary," she croaked out finally, voice hoarse, crackling, dry in a way that left Seras wondering if she'd ever spoken before in her life. At the word, something in those dull yellow eyes flickered in recollection. "Sanctuary," she repeated, the word sounding more confident now, even as her voice trembled in something approaching fear. Her quaking intensified, the next breath she drew in rattling wetly in her throat. "Sanctuary," she insisted again, staring up at Seras with wide eyes, intense enough that Seras nearly took a step back. Her breath stuttered and the werewolf hacked roughly, any residual hydration seemingly swept from her throat again. "I beg of you," she added earnestly, scarcely above a whisper.

She crumpled to the ground before Seras could think of another word to say.


	2. Chapter 2

The Hellsing Manor cells were scarcely ever used these days, but for once Seras found herself grateful that they'd not yet been repurposed.

They were simple rooms, built deep underground in small, square rooms built of thick concrete walls, barred by a single, heavy door cut from solid ash. A simple binding sigil on each door kept any vampire or ghoul thrown into these cells from ever breaking out again.

_ But do they actually bind werewolves? _ Pip drawled wryly, raising a brow. Seras mentally shoved him aside, ignoring his complaints as she watched the werewolf in silence.

Thirteen hours. The half-dead werewolf that'd collapsed onto her master's doorstep had been unconscious for thirteen  _ hours. _ That was unheard of for humans, and bizarre for vampires besides, but werewolves? ...She had no idea.  _ We've only ever dealt with the one, _ Pip agreed. Seras could feel the phantom weight of him using her shoulder as an armrest.

"And that one already wanted to die," Seras huffed under her breath, shaking his shadow off her shoulder.

_ Someone's tense. _

She had good reason to be, she thought. Even though she  _ had _ dispatched a suicidal werewolf once before, it'd hardly been a quick or easy battle. A mild jolt of phantom pain twinged up her arm at the recollection.  _ How should I know what  _ other _ werewolves are like? _

_ You'll do fine, _ Pip waved off her concerns.  _ Integra wouldn't have put you in charge of the pup if she didn't agree. _

Seras wasn't sure she agreed with that sentiment, but he was right about one thing—she  _ had _ been stuck in charge of "chaperoning" the mutilated werewolf, so chaperone she would.

She just hadn't really expected to be watching the unconscious girl remain so for thirteen  _ hours. _

Despite the pitch black of the cramped cell, Seras could still see the outline of the crumpled werewolf's form perfectly. As beaten and battered as she'd appeared on the pristine lobby of the manor, she appeared even moreso now, curled into herself on the plain cell cot, the extent of her abuse fully on display.

She was dressed in little more than a rough linen tunic and denim cut-offs, both stained liberally with dirt and blood, with cuts and holes in the fabric where bullets and blades had cut into her flesh. The wide, exposed swaths of skin were the color of burnished copper, littered with what had to be hundreds of pale lines of old, ragged scar tissue.

But her left arm seemed to have taken the brunt of... whatever had happened to her.

The scarring on the exposed arm seemed to be the oldest, thick and pale and callused, spider-webbing all over the limb till it appeared to be more scar tissue than living. So severe was the damage that Seras felt a brief twinge of paranoia that the werewolf was  _ rotting. _ Something close to a shudder darted up her spine. She'd seen and heard the werewolf speak, so she knew it was out of the question, but the thought of a werewolf ghoul still turned her stomach. If werewolves could even become ghouls. Or vampires proper, for that matter.

Not for the first time, Seras found herself desperately missing her master. He would surely have a far better idea of how to handle a baffling captive werewolf than she did.  _ I'm way out of my depth here. _

Soft blue eyes lingered on the extensive damage of the werewolf's arm. She wondered how she could even use the limb at all; it looked as though her arm had been doused in flame from the elbow down and left to heal poorly, leaving pale, ugly, blistering scars in its wake.

She'd seen firsthand how much damage a werewolf could take and seamlessly heal back from.  _ What does that kind of damage to one of these and still leaves those kinds of scars? _ Seras wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

Her gaze drifted higher up, seeking further, similar damage in hopes of additional clues. She wasn't quite expecting to meet the gaze of a single golden eye open, cold, watching Seras watching, equally unstrained in the pitch black. Despite that she had no need of breath, Seras felt hers catch sharply anyway, a peculiar mingled sense of shame and alarm burning in her throat.

The werewolf simply blinked, second eye opening to return the staredown from behind the long, wild black hair that'd fallen in front of her face. She said nothing, did nothing, didn't even move a muscle otherwise, yet Seras felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck, prickling with unease. Seras had been watching her for hours, yet scarcely a moment of the werewolf staring back at her left Seras feeling distinctly... sized up.

Seras broke the staredown first, eyes flicking back down to the werewolf's ruined hand instead of keeping that bestial stare.

"Old wound."

The werewolf spoke so suddenly that Seras nearly fell out of the wooden chair she'd been perched in. Her voice was rough and ragged, yet still a rich contralto, perhaps a hair deeper than Integra's own voice. Husky in a way that suggested heavy disuse. Seras couldn't begin to place the baffling accent.

Seras was so startled by the suddenness of her speaking that she nearly forgot to respond.

"I—sorry?"  _ Smooth. Very professional. _

The werewolf flexed her hand into a fist as if to prove its worth, and Seras grimaced at the way the tendons of her hand stood out, stark, under the pale scars. The fist trembled just slightly. "You were staring," she pointed out. Seras felt a ghost of heat touch her cheeks, her ears. She hated that, somehow, undeath did not prevent blushing. At least the werewolf didn't sound offended. "I assumed you were curious."

She was, not that she'd admit that. "I didn't realize you were awake." It sounded defensive, even to herself. The werewolf merely blinked again.

"Are we in Hellsing Manor?"

That seemed an odd question. "You don't remember getting here?"

"I've not been myself lately."

Seras wasn't sure how much of the girl's current wild, near-feral appearance was "herself," and how much was not.

"Yes," Seras finally said regardless. "You're locked within a secured cell within the Manor. So don't try anything."

Those golden eyes flickered in something eerily close to humor. "There exists no room that could hold me." She said it not in any sort of threat, but simply as a statement. "But I will comply. I will not jeopardize my sanctuary here. Thank you."

"You keep saying 'sanctuary,'" Seras commented, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, "as though you're in danger. You haven't...  _ led _ something here, have you?" The repairs on the Manor had taken years to undergo, and were only just now nearing completion. Seras dreaded to think of how devastating another attack even remotely like the Valentine brothers' would be right now.

The werewolf stared at her for a long moment, unblinking, appearing to consider her. Something in those cold, eerie golden eyes seemed to soften. She pushed herself up on the cot with her unmarred hand with some difficulty into a seated position. Her mutilated hand rose, pushing her long, wild mane back from her cheeks, revealing her face entirely.

Seras had already in her short years seen more than her fair share of death, and violence, and destruction. Had participated in it, even. Had seen and done things that would make even the most hardened soldier pale.

It didn't stop her from gasping aloud now.

"I have led nothing here," said the werewolf, nearly defensive. The reason for her curious accent was suddenly made far clearer: the right side of her face had been destroyed in similar fashion to her arm. The skin and muscle had been utterly ravaged, eaten away to expose fangs and gums even with her mouth shut, leaving her cheek ripped open and healed shut in a sickening mockery of a crooked grin. Ragged fractals of scars extended up and down her face from the gaping destruction, the tallest scarcely reaching the lower lid of her eye, the deepest tearing down her throat and collar and disappearing beneath her shirt. "There is nothing on this  _ planet _ with enough nerve to try tracking me."

Seras sucked in a hoarse breath through her teeth. "What— _ are _ you?"

She smiled, or at least allowed the unbroken corner of her mouth to turn up in what looked like one. Her ruined hand came up to swipe the pad of her thumb over the quirked lip.

"I am Jezebel. I am a werewolf. As for what else that entails... that remains to be seen."


End file.
